Auto Erotic
by SinShameGuilt
Summary: Slashy one shot written for the Fandom Gives Back Auction - dedicated to the lovely and talented Frenchbeanz. We can all dream can't we?


This was written for the lovely and talented Frenchbeanz – who was high enough on crack and meth to bid on my writing in the Fandom Gives Back Auction. We love her.

DISCLAIMER: This is a fictional piece about two fictional actors. . .no defamation, libel, copyright infringement or any of that other nasty shit that people accuse fanfiction writers of is intended. This is for entertainment purposes only, no money is being made on this crap, trust me. If it were, I'd have a nicer house.

So I put this under Twilight because everything I'm writing right now relates to Twilight. There aren't any names in this because the wonderful lady I wrote it for wanted RPF and a particular pairing (that hasn't been done as far as we can tell) – but of course RPF isn't allowed here, right? So, yeah, this is fictional. And fictionally speaking, one's blonde and one has bronze hair. . .so like I said – use your imagination ;)

AUTO-EROTIC

_Self-love and Reason to one end aspire;_

_Pain their aversion, Pleasure their desire. . ._

Alexander Pope, _Essay on Man_

I firmly believe that we are the sum of our experiences. This includes the casual events as well as the extraordinary adventures. And so it was for that reason that I tended to observe things carefully. The little nuances in situations were the key. The scent of a passing breeze; the sound of clothing as it rustles against skin; and the feel of a breath as it leaves the body. These are the things I want to remember.

I watched the gentle glow of the embers as the smoke swirled above the slightly tarnished basin that held the remnants of our nicotine dependence. He rolled the last of his cigarette between his slim fingers. His shirt rode up a little and stretched taught over his shoulders as he leaned forward and crushed it into the ashtray.

The last of the beer had been consumed. The last of the party goers, save one, had wandered back to their own rooms. I was lying on the bed, my guitar nestled against me, plucking out a depressing melody that had been swirling in my brain for a while. He was perched on the back of a chair beside the bed, his own guitar in hand, trying to follow my musical lead.

"You come up with the most depressing shit ever, you know that?"

That made me feel a fuck load better. "Well thank you," I said with mock cheerfulness. "Asshole."

He laughed at me. Then again, everyone that actually knew me tended to laugh at me.

He made a weak attempt to redeem himself. "I just meant that your music tends to be a bit on the dark and lonely side, ya know?"

I took the last drag of my own cigarette and leaned over to toss it in the ashtray. "Yeah? Well maybe that's because my life is a bit on the dark and lonely side." I said it with a smirk. It had been a good night and I wasn't in one of my wallowing self-pity moods so I felt compelled to fuck with him a little bit.

"What. Ever. ," he said as he rolled his eyes. "You're living the life of Riley right now man. Enjoy the fuck out of it! I sure as shit would."

If he only knew. Well, he knew some of it. Some things no one could understand if they hadn't been through it. Sometimes I considered calling up Take That or the Backstreet Boys to see how they fucking survived this crazy fan shit.

"You know," he started a little softer but still in his unmistakable drawl. "I've been meaning to ask you for some advice."

I stretched a little on the bed but kept my eyes closed, letting the end of the day settle over me. "Yeah? 'Bout what?" I literally had no fucking idea what the fuck would I have to offer Mr. Fucking Quirky Confident.

"Well," he hesitated. "I'm up for this role and I'm, I guess I'm not really sure how to approach it."

"What's the role?" I asked as I moved my guitar off the bed and lay back down.

"Well," he said as he tilted his chin down absently plucking his guitar. "It's kind of a generic romantic comedy thing, but the role I want is kind of odd."

I chuckled and glanced over to check his expression. "You? Up for an odd role? I'm dumbfounded."

"Fuck you, man," he chortled as he threw a cushion at me. I managed to block it while I was still laughing.

We both settled down and a pregnant pause filled the room. I guessed he was serious. He seemed a little pensive, definitely more reserved than usual. I'd never seen this side of him. To put it mildly, this fucker was confident. Overly confident at times, this was completely part of his charm. But I sensed some tension in his tone; he was still a little hesitant when he finally spoke again.

"I was wondering what it's like to kiss another guy and since you did that Dali thing, I figured, ya know. . ." His words all slurred together as he forced them out.

I continued laughing a little, only mine showed the nerves now. "Okay," I said, intentionally dragging out the vowels. "What do you want to know?"

He kind of snorted and then got very quiet. "I don't know, just, is it, like, weird or whatever?" Despite his deeper voice, I swear he was channeling Lauren Conrad at that point.

"It's like anything else I suppose," I told him, trying to analyze it clinically in my own head. "It's just part of the job, right?"

I'd long since resigned myself to the fact that my personality lent itself to hiding in my characters. It was easy to act like someone else; to be someone else. It was harder to let people see the person behind the facade. I always felt that person would be a disappointment compared to the image everyone seemed to project onto me. I remember the _Vanity Fair_ article that suggested that, in person at least, I have "no game." Not that it was brain surgery to figure that out, but to print it seemed a whole other animal.

"Well, yeah, I know its part of the job." he said quickly as he slid down into the chair and leaned toward the foot of the bed. "But you have to make it believable, right? So how the fuck can you do that if you're repulsed because the person you're kissing is another dude?"

"You won't be repulsed by them," I said matter of factly.

He threw up his hands in frustration. "How the fuck do you know that?" The cynicism was evident in his tone.

"Because you won't." I think I sounded more annoyed with the conversation than I really was. But I wanted him to understand.

"Trust me," I said firmly, trying to shift the balance of authority and sound convincing. "It's just a moment, you'll be in it and it'll feel right and it'll work." I thought it ironic that a stuffy Brit was lecturing a stoned Texan on the art of being open minded. I suppose life is even more fucked up than art most of the time.

It's not like I hadn't thought about it. Because I had. Any guy that says they haven't at least _thought_ about it is lying. So after he asked me what it was like, I sat there and thought about it some more. He kept arguing that it wasn't going to work. He wanted the role because it was apparently in a big movie but this was really grating on him.

I finally sat up and leaned my elbows on my knees. We looked at each other and I raised my eyebrows at him. My voice came out softer than I intended. "So you've honestly never even been curious?"

He was quiet. See? If they say they haven't thought about it? Liars.

"Maybe. I don't know." He looked down as though he was embarrassed. But there was something endearing in his voice. The sound of his gentle southern slur, the cadence that almost bordered on a lisp but was more a textured swallowing of his words.

I noticed the crown of his head, from the gentle slope down over his temples to his high cheekbones; the straggly bangs falling down over his eyes. There was a part of me that found something attractive in everyone. If you _really_ look, each person has some physical element that is desirable. Some had more than others, of course. But there was always something.

Right now, in him, it was his eyes. They were wide and bright, almost too big for his face. They drew you in and made you wonder about him. You could see the curiosity of a young boy coupled with the wisdom of a world weary traveler. At that moment I sensed that his eyes were asking me something but the rest of him was uncertain.

"Were you curious? I mean, before you did, ya know . . ." He asked softly, looking up at me again.

I stared at him, almost daring him to ask for what he really wanted. "What do you think?"

He shifted his eyes away, down to the ground. "Probably."

I was prodding him gently, leading him to show his hand. "Probably what?"

"You've probably been curious."

Socrates would be proud as I slowly pushed him further, forcing him to follow his own logic. "Yes, I was. So let me ask you again. Have you ever been curious?"

He shrugged his shoulders and sighed as if he felt defeated. "I don't know."

"I think you do," I chastised him with an air of authority.

He looked up and shook his at me, apparently baffled. "What do you want? You want me to fucking ask you to kiss me?"

I paused and waited until his eyes fell back to mine and held him there for a beat. "Yes," I said on a whisper.

"Okay. Fucking kiss me then."

"Not until you ask me properly," I said coyly.

"Jeezus H. Christ. Yes. I'm fucking curious about kissing a guy," he ranted to me. "Would you please fucking kiss me so I can kill that cat?"

I smirked at him and he calmed down just a bit. Then I slowly tipped my head toward him and softly pressed my lips to his.  
He tensed up at first and then I felt him angle his head, shifting his body closer and slowly moving his lips against mine. They were softer than I expected and I could smell the faint notes of patchouli and smoke that slipped through his lips, filling my senses.

Carefully putting my hands on his shoulders, I opened my lips a fraction and pulled his bottom lip into them. I felt the distinct difference in the edge of his lips and the smooth, slick texture just inside his mouth. I felt him relax further, moving his top lip against me. I tugged on his lip a little harder and moved my tongue to slide along the width of it. It tasted salty, like the tang of the liquor from a raw oyster.

Taking a breath, I opened my lips enough for him to pull back and look at me. My hands moved from his shoulders up his neck and settled at the nape, with my thumbs stroking the skin just below his ears. The stubble stopped at the edge of his jaw line so the skin there was smooth and soft. If I tilted my thumbs forward a little, there was a sharp contrast to the prickly covering of his beard.

Without a word, he closed his eyes and let his head drift back to mine, dragging his lips against my cheek. His hands were on my thighs as he parted his lips and brushed a soft trail of moisture along my jaw.

I felt the graininess of his tongue on my neck, and coupled with the tiny brush of stubble from his chin, it was actually very arousing. It had more intensity than kissing a woman. Maybe it was the disparity of strength between male and female. Inherent differences that unknowingly define us and make up the foundation of our being.

There was a certain comfort in it, touching and tasting skin that smells and feels like mine. It was familiar. There was also a lack of pressure, that albatross that always hovered over me and every other man when we were _performing_. In this instance, your inhibitions went down a little bit; almost like the freedom you feel when you masturbate. No one's watching; no one will judge you; no one will critique you, so you can just focus on what feels good. That's what this was. Only a little bit better.

Instinctively, my hands wrapped around his neck, digging into his scalp. I forced his mouth away from my skin and pushed his chin up to look at me. His eyes were open and glassy and his lips were barely parted, maybe to breathe but maybe in anticipation. "See?" I whispered. "When you're in the moment, it doesn't matter."

He sighed and dropped his eyes a little, staring at my lips. "Don't stop," he begged in a cracked whisper that cut through the tension like a knife. "Please?" It flipped something in me, a deeper appetite for something exceptional. I leaned forward and pushed my lips against his. It wasn't soft or sweet or any of those things that are usually associated with tentative first kisses. This was rough and furious and _fuck me_ if I didn't get a little hard.

There was no reluctance from either of us now. We both seemed to throw ourselves into it. His tongue coiled around mine before he pulled back and pulled my lip between his teeth. My fingers raked across his cheeks and his chin. It was amazing, not worrying about how much pressure I used or thinking about the fact that I was _stronger_. I gripped his skin hard enough to pinch it, earning a grunt that escaped as he released my lips and moved down to my chin. The warmth from his tongue felt soft, a contrast to the sharp sting as he bit down. There was a distinct flame in my belly as he nipped at the coarse hair on my cheek, a remnant from lazy days of not shaving.

My hands tore at his hair, tugging and pushing and straining to get him closer. The touch of his lips and his hands in my hair was not nearly enough. The gates had been opened and some long dormant appetite rushed out and ran straight to my cock. Suddenly, he stopped and pulled back, breathing heavily. Without looking at me he reached for his beer and pulled the last of it. Somewhat empowered, I suppose, he looked up at me through his lashes and fucking smirked. A full on, evil fucking smirk. Frustrated, I finally gripped the placket of his shirt and jerked him toward the bed.

"C'mere," I growled as he fell beside me. We landed on the bed, shifting over the luxurious duvet. Now. Now, he was almost close enough. Now, I could feel the hard lines of his chest, the muscles twitching as my hands pressed over them. I felt him slide up, running his tongue along the shell of my ear. A chill was left as the moisture moved into the cold air of the hotel room. I shivered a little and he stopped.

"What?" He said gruffly.

I closed my eyes and took a breath. The smell of cigarettes and stale beer mingled between our mouths. There was no telling where this was going. Is this where we threw caution to the wind and let the universe have her way? My body said yes and my mind was too flooded with sensation to disagree.

"Nothing," I sighed. "Just don't fucking stop." With that he grazed his teeth against my ear and wrapped his hands around my shoulders. I could feel rough grip of his fingers through the thin fabric of my t-shirt. I sensed a flush moving from my chest, outward, warming my skin wherever he touched. He pinched my nipples and the burn crawled down my belly. I was hard as a rock now. My hips were tilting toward him and I could feel the teeth on my zipper brushing against my cock. The friction was good but it wasn't enough. I needed pressure. My hands were at his waist now and I carefully gripped his belt loops, slowly pulling him closer. He got the idea and stretched his legs, pulling himself into my grip until I felt his knees against mine. _Fuck._ Our thighs barely touched and the heat exploded again. He was as hard as I was and now it seemed as though he wanted control.

He thrust against me, lining up every inch of our bodies that could touch at that moment. I felt him from the simple brush of his nose to the weight of his ankle on my calf. Intense. His grip pulled me harder against him. The pressure of my chest against his shoulder was almost painful. _Almost._

He was kissing me again, slower this time but just as rough, with a sense of determination. He pushed my shoulder, easing me to my back a little, climbing over me and forcing his thigh between my legs. Breathless, he moved his lips away from mine, gasping as he tried to talk. "Move your other leg between mine." I did and felt every fucking centimeter of his cock as it molded against my thigh. "Yeah," he grunted. "Right there."

From there, it was a cacophony of grunts and expletives.

His hands pulled my hips to him so hard I could feel the seam of his jeans digging into my thigh. He was so close; I swear I could sense the blood flow into his cock and the pulses that resonated from it.

"Ungh, fuck, right there."

"Jesus, son of a, just don't. . ."

My senses were flooded with familiar scents and tactile sensations. There was that common aroma of testosterone. The spicy bouquet that was uniquely male. My brain processed the feel of his muscles under my touch. The rippling strength in his forearms in opposition to the cottony hair there. It was as though my body recognized what was happening, not questioning any differences in the method. Like being on autopilot.

We moved against one another with abandon. The heaviness of his weight against me made it difficult to move but my hips thrust against the firmness of his thigh. It was solid, almost like the denim was too small for him. I could hear the abrasive sounds of our jeans rubbing together and the small tremors created by the friction. All of this was only slightly muted by the soft cotton of my boxer briefs as they stretched around my skin.

There was fullness in my cock, more than hard; it was the feeling of the blood pushing its way toward the head, feeding the monster, strengthening it. I felt his hips shift as he ground harder against my knee. The weight of his arousal was immense and it seems as though he was trying to crawl into my skin to relieve the pressure. Pulling and groping; scratching and scraping; biting and sucking, trying to find the edge.

Something was missing. We were both on the precipice it seemed. Both looking for that final push that evaded us for the moment. We thrust furiously against one another, craving the anger in it and relishing the brutality of the moment.

"Dammit," he said as he pulled my hips closer, to the point I could feel the button on his jeans pressing into my skin. He whined, "I need to fucking cum already."

I laughed. I couldn't help it. My mouth was at his ear as I chuckled, "Join the fucking club."

"Fuck you," he said as he pulled back and leaned his head toward my chest. The movement caused my hands to slide up his torso, nudging his shirt up so that my fingers lay against his skin. That was it. That's what was missing. The smooth touch of skin. My eyes closed and I felt the tension creep higher, lifting me toward the denouement.

It must have done something to him as well. He groaned as I pushed my fingers lower, slipping under the waistband of his jeans, pressing him just that much closer. There was a thin layer of sweat covering his skin. My hands grabbed for purchased but to no avail.

He mimicked my actions and I felt the rough skin of fingers against my back. His grip was strong and I could almost feel the bruises forming where his fingers lay. We shoved our bodies into one another, driving each other toward the end.

His words were mottled, the smoothness lost in some ethereal ecstasy. "I'm gonna fuckin' cum." Another moment. Another wave of sensations. His body went rigid and I could almost feel the tension being expelled. He spewed another curse as his head fell to my chest and he latched his teeth to my skin. The pain shot through me as he bit down again, this time hitting upon my nipple. My skin went taught, to the point I felt the blood forcing its way through my body. The sound of it thumped through my brain and I swear I could feel the vein in my forehead swell.

"Fuck," I roared as the last string snapped and I plunged over the edge. The sound of my own grunt drove up from my belly as I grit my teeth and fisted my hands tighter around his waist. The relief stemmed outward from my cock, moving in concentric circles toward my extremities leaving me listless.

The firm muscles and taught skin were gone, from both of us. He collapsed onto my chest, exhaling loudly. I lay there for a minute before the weight of him and the mess we made both became uncomfortable. I pushed on his chest, rolling him away from me and onto his back. He sniffled a little at me and I looked at him with a raised brow. "What?"

He pouted at me and asked, "No cuddling?"

I rolled my eyes at him pushed him further away from me. "Fuck you, man."

He stood up and wiggled his eyebrows at me. "Maybe next time."


End file.
